


like stars, we were doomed to burn out

by ryanreynolds



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (2015)
Genre: Angst, F/M, M/M, POV Second Person, Unrequited Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-27
Updated: 2016-03-27
Packaged: 2018-05-29 10:33:01
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,618
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6371347
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ryanreynolds/pseuds/ryanreynolds
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Imagine this. You're a soldier in a war too big and too cruel for you. You're a thief in the dark, stealing beautiful things meant for someone else. You're a spy for a decade, you're tied on arms and feet, and teamed up with a short German and a short tempered Russian, you've never felt safer. You're a terrible spy in love with a Red Peril.</p>
            </blockquote>





	like stars, we were doomed to burn out

**Author's Note:**

> Written with **[Circular Story](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Nci9xdpqi7I)** on repeat. It really sets the mood

Imagine this. You're sixteen and the world is collapsing in on it self. You're twenty one, you're finally legal and you've already seen the fall of too many nations, witnessed the deaths of too many honest and good men who fought a war too big for them to win, heard their dying breath as you desperately try to keep them alive for just one more second, keeping pressure on their wounds just as you were taught, with bullets flying over your heads.

Imagine this. You're twenty four and you've been stealing paintings far more valuable than you will ever be. And maybe that's why you've been storing them up. To drink a little of their value, push down the self hatred and feel like the young boy who set sails over the big ocean to save the world. But even this goes wrong, just like every friendship in the war, and though you're offered a deal to get out of prison, it still feels like you're in more danger than you ever were when a scared German trooper cornered you, with eyes shining with the same fear that had ate its way into your very soul.

Imagine this. You're thirty three and nothing you've done in the past decade has been of own free will. You've slept with more women and men than you can count and you feel covered in dirt to the point where you'll never properly feel comfortable in your own skin. The end result of your countless missions is more often than not, you returning, battered and beaten, with more nightmares to haunt your sleep. And they're still looking at you, like you're nothing more than a tool in their chess of politics. You probably aren't.

Imagine this. You're thirty four and you've just helped a young woman escape over a wall, built to make the world realize that curtain has been formed and there's no escaping. You're being told to work with a Soviet spy and the petite woman from Berlin is to be his fiancée. All you let them see of you is the charming mask, you've perfected since you realized that no person could stand with you and share the burden of your past. You watch them fall in love and you don't care. When the last five years are over, you'll probably be forced to give up your life in a last suicide mission. You cannot win.

Imagine this. You're thirty four and your head is exploding. An uncle is laughing in the corner, you feel blood trickle from your nose and your head is exploding. There's so many colours and yet there's none. Gaby is on her way to the Vinciguerras private island and knowing Illya – because you do, you have been watching them for a long time, with that every lasting ache in your chest – then he is, at this very moment, trying his best to catch up to her. You're not really bitter about being left behind like a used tool – after all, that has always been your job in the CIA. You also know that Gaby has always been and will always be more important than you ever will be. So when the uncle is making one last threat, you're not really scared. You always knew this job would be the death of you, if not know then it'd be five years from now.

Imagine this. You're thirty five and though you survived being electrocuted by a mad scientist, you're not sure you're going to survive seeing them fall more in love every single day. You go through the motions you know; wake up, get the new mission, do this mission and do your very best to ensure that they do not get hurt – no matter the consequences it will have for you. Illya gets mad at you when a mission goes so horribly wrong that you almost bleed out in his arms – for that simple reason that you wouldn't even give up Gaby's and his name to ensure your own survival. He yells at you as the world darkens and the pain blessedly lessens and you smile because he does not deserve to live with any more pain than he already does. You don't hear the gasp that comes from Gaby as she enters the room a little too late and you don't hear the crack in Illya's voice as he screams you name. You don't see or feel the tears that falls on your neck. You feel calm and free for the first time in almost two decades, wrapped up in the arms of the one you truly love. And laying here, with the blood trickling from almost every inch of your body, including the bullet hole meant for Gaby, you don't mind dying. You've always heard that when you die, you turn in to a star and stars see everything, so maybe you can still keep a watchful eye on Illya and Gaby. It doesn't sound too bad and with that you close your eyes and let the darkness envelope you.

Imagine this. You're thirty six and you're still alive. You have scars all over your body, your fingers shake a little too much every now and then, and you wake up with screams caught in your throat and your body aching with phantom pain. Gaby and Illya doesn't know any of this and that's how it should always be. You're thirty six and you're free from CIA.

Imagine this. You're thirty six and you should be free. Instead you're ripped from the only people you've ever trusted in fifteen years and told to carry on your work. If they wanted, they could get you another prison sentence – one of the paintings, you stole, had never been recovered, after all (you find it in Sanders' home and something inside you breaks). They threaten your life and you still refuse – you're free. They threaten Illya and Gaby and you agree to do whatever they want you to do, until their missions finally kill you. You go through the motions that you know; wake up, get a new mission, woo your target, try to forget everything about the feisty German woman and the cold yet soft Red Peril of Russia, and finish the missions with no regards for your life. You get back hurt, broken, bruised and beat, and the CIA doesn't care. They give you painkillers and a new mission, tell you to go on.

Imagine this. You're thirty seven and you have never been more alone. Your charming smile has lost its charm and your eyes loses a little more of their brightness as each day goes by. You wake up screaming in a bed too cold and in a world too dark and cruel. You never minded this when you had the two near you – you don't say their names anymore, unless you're forced to – but now you lay in bed for hours, trying to get the pain under control, shaking with fear and sorrow. Your body is battered, your spirit broken. What once made you Napoleon Solo is no more and you are a mere shadow of your self. You let the CIA control your every move and their smiles turn a little colder every day, even though you never though it possible. So when they finally give you a mission with smiles as cold as ice, you know that this is it. You survived a lot of missions where you should have died painfully, but not this one. This one is the end.

Imagine this. You're thirty seven and you're dying. A bullet ricocheted and instead of hitting the mafia boss like it was intended, you suddenly felt that searing pain in your chest that only comes from a bullet. The pain flares white hot and your vision immediately darkens. Your eyes widens and times seems to move ever so slow, hand clutching your suit where the bullet went through. And then you fall. Into darkness and into death. You were never free but that's okay because they were – you've been checking up on them and Illya never returned behind the Iron Curtain to a future unknown and East Berlin never fastened its grip on Gaby again. They were safe and free, so it didn't matter that you never were. 

Imagine this. You were thirty seven. They hear of your death from Waverly precisely two hours and sixteen minutes after your partner turned on you and pulled the trigger. He tells them that there had been nothing they could've done. He tells them that you died without pain and when they found you, your face had shone with serenity. You had been at peace before you left this world, that never deserved you and that twisted you into something a good person like you should never have been, behind. He would have told them more if it wasn't for Illya storming out of the room and Gaby breaking down in silent tears and overwhelming grief. They always thought you'd come back.

Imagine this. You were thirty seven and you'll never age another day, never see a new dawn. At your funeral only four people turn up – Sanders sends flowers. Illya burns them when he sees the card. Your mother looks at your coffin with sorrow and at Illya with pity and warmth. She takes their hands, the two of them, and tells them what they need to hear, that you loved them and had always wanted them safe. Illya storms from the graveyard and Gaby stays for a long time after the service is over. You were never free in life but in death, she hopes, you're soaring the skies.

**Author's Note:**

> I do apologize for every single error this might have had. If you wanna cry with me about these three or just Napoleon Solo on tumblr - eclmundpevensie.tumblr.com
> 
> Thank you so much for reading :)


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